Archive for January, 2008

Quick Post

Late for work

Tired

On to my 3rd interview

I hope my background check doesn’t kill me

No studying for right now

Need to start exercising again

Playing guitar makes me feel good

Kind of like exercising but not really

Watching too many stupid movies

Stop renting from the red kiosk

The selection is pretty weak

That is all

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Living with terror

This is my roommate and his boyfriend.

Wednesday Weekly Recap FuckFuck

Excerpts from my weekly to do list:

“Extremely depressed, malaise, shittiness. What is wrong with me? What is my problem? Do I even have a problem?” – Monday sucked

“Feeling better than yesterday, going to work on goals and shit. Don’t be such a pussy.” – Tuesday was better

“Continue to not be such a pussy” – Progress for Wednesday

And there you have it folks, a blow by blow of my mental state over the last 3 days, in a quick, journal-excerpt format. It’s pretty illuminating shit, that journal business. For the last 6 years or so, I have been so fucked up on alcohol and drugs, that I lost sense of time. I mean, unless I actively write down what I’m doing and what I’m supposed to do, then I begin to drift, and then I keep drifting, and then I am in a huge circle. I am trying to escape the circle, and let me tell you, it’s basically fucking impossible. And even if I did “escape my current circle,” I have no doubt that I would just graduate to a different circle. Not any better or worse, but only different. Anyway.

Things I am thinking about at this second:

Abandonment issues over Roughty and the blog. Fucker.

No more jobs for me to go after right now. 3 interviews since Friday, that’s a good thing.

Heath Ledger. This is actually a good nugget. Heath Ledger died of a drug overdose, accidental or not, prescribed or not, whatever. What about Pete Doherty, Amy Winehouse and Britney Spears? They are all fuckup drug addicts, but they sure as fuck arent’ DEAD by DRUG OVERDOSE. I never heard anything about Heath’s custody battle. Maybe Bohemians don’t think about it like that. How many times was Heath whacked on D-rugs, hanging with his kids? Probably tons. He didn’t OD because he took too many ambiens, either.

Coachella lineup came out yesterday. It’s OK, I guess. $270 for 3 day ticket, dunno if I can hit that up.

Peace out

The time where I told a story from my dog’s point of view

My name is Chompy, and this is my story. 

I live in Venice Beach with my new family. I’m the only dog in the house, and it’s a good thing because the apartment is so small. Most of the time, I sleep. My family is out a lot of the time, which is lonely for me. But I would rather be lonely and sleeping than crowded. I like to sleep all day.

I did not always live with my family. I’ve lived with other people before, and other people before that. You could say I moved around a lot, but I really haven’t moved at all. I’ve never left the place I live by the beach. I was born near here, and hopefully I’ll be here forever. 

I have had many many adventures, which is why I sleep all the time. What’s the point of being crazy, anyway? I’m old enough to understand that it’s not my turn to be wild  anymore. I had my fun. So I sleep.

It’s hard for me to remember everything that has happened to me, because I am so old, and because it’s not a dog’s place to remember everything. It’s my job to be a dog, not a rememberer. I sleep all day, remember? 

One of the first things I think I remember is my brothers and sisters. We were all the same color, but I was the prettiest. I was always the prettiest. My brothers and sisters and I weren’t together for that long, but I was the prettiest when we were. Pretty little Chompy, that’s what my first family called me. The prettiest dog in the neighborhood. That’s why I hold my head up high, because my mom was so pretty, and I was a pretty little girl, and I had to live up to my mom. I looked just like her, orange with a big patch of white on my chest, just like my mom.

I went to a new family when I was still very little, and it made me so sad to leave my brothers and sisters. Everyone was having fun one day, and then all the sudden I had to go live with a new family, while everybody else just stayed home and had fun. I had to leave all by myself. It was so terrible, I cried and cried forever. I learned to sing at my second family’s house because I was so sad. I would sing, and my new family would sing with me, and it made me feel better. It made me feel a lot better when I would sing, and my family would sing with me, and I could just relax and let it all go. That’s why I sing, to make myself feel better, and to tell everyone around me how I feel. It’s what I learned to do when I moved out on my own. 

I became very disillusioned with the world when my second family gave me away. I was always a sensitive girl, on account of being the prettiest and wanting to live up to my mom. I just wanted everything to be perfect, for me to be a star in everyone’s universe. That’s what I always wanted, but it really never worked out like that. My second family gave me away to the family across the street. They dropped me off, and I never saw them again. I was so upset again. I loved my second family because they would sing with me, and they were my first “real” family after I left my mom and brothers and sisters. I thought they were going to take care of me forever, but they gave me to a new family, and the new family had dogs.

I can’t stand dogs. I cannot handle being around other dogs. When I was a little girl, it was hard for me to play with my brothers especially, because they were always so rough. They would bite me, and try to hump me, and get in my face and sniff my behind. I couldn’t stand it, and I still can’t stand it. I need my own space, I need it, I need it, I need it. And then that’s when the real trouble began. My new family had two other dogs, a girl and a boy. What was funny was that I got along better with the boy than the girl. When I was a little girl, my brothers would drive me nuts, and my sisters would all be more relaxed. I liked sitting with them, even though they were all jealous of me, better than I liked roughhousing with my brothers. Well, the new dogs I met, the brother and sister at my new family, had been living together for years. I don’t know if they were related, but they looked the same, and acted like they had lived together forever. 

I first realized something weird when I had to eat outside every night. The other two got to eat inside, where it was warm, but I had to eat outside by myself. I would eat my food, and look inside the sliding glass door at the other two, where they would be getting fed from the table. I always wanted food from the table, but my new family would never let me inside to get any. Then, the two dogs would come outside and bother me about my food. I don’t like to eat fast all the time, but when they came out, I would scarf down all my food as fast as I could. I didn’t want them eating my food.

One day, I saw one of the dogs, the girl, eating my food. I bit her and we started fighting. Her brother jumped on me, and I couldn’t stop them. They bit me hard, and I was bleeding from a few different places, most of all on the top of my head. I was bleeding all over my face. It was hard for me to think about stuff for a while after that, because the scar on my head made it impossible to push my forehead up. That’s how I think, I crinkle my forehead. 

And so, the two dogs attacked me, and I got hurt. That was how I got sent to the Pound. I never even heard of the Pound until I got there, and as we walked in, I started to freak out. The Pound. The Pound. I didn’t even know what the word was, but it was loud inside my brain. They handed me over, and I went to a cage. Every dog in the place was going nuts. The Pound The Pound The Pound, they wouldn’t stop barking and screaming at each other and at the people working there. Barking and screaming, the Pound the Pound. I don’t remember much about my first trip to the Pound. I tried to sleep, but it was hard. I didn’t mind sleeping on concrete so much, but the other dogs bothered me too much so I couldn’t relax.

I honestly don’t remember how long I was in there for. One day, two people walked by my cage, and looked in. They took me home, but not to their home. They sent me to an old lady’s house, who was my new family. The old lady was by far my favorite family I had ever had. She was so nice to me, and so sweet. She was lonely because her family had died, and her own kids had picked me from the Pound to be the old lady’s new family. I was so excited because it was the first time in my entire life that I felt like I belonged in a family, like I was a part of the group. It was just me and the old lady. She knew how pretty I was too, and that made me so happy. She would talk to me and call me the prettiest dog on the block, and she would sing sometimes in the house by herself. One day, she was singing, and I started singing too, to show her that I could too. She loved it so much, and from then on, we were the singing family. Everyday, for at least a little while, we would sit inside and sing about our feelings, and about how we were still living and carrying on despite being hurt. I had just been in the pound, remember. I was always so sensitive, and being with another sensitive old lady made me so happy. I had someone who was my friend. I loved her. 

I lived with the old lady for a while, and I had a great time. It was the happiest part of my life up to that point. Then something terrible happened – the old lady died. She died one night when she was sleeping, and she didn’t get up in the morning. I tried to wake her up, but she was cold and I knew something was wrong. I cried a little bit, and just laid there next to her on the bed.

I don’t remember what happened to me after the old lady died. I honestly don’t remember. I remember crying and singing for a day, just me and her, and that’s about it. The next thing I know, I was literally on the beach. It was cold, and it was wet. I was on the beach, going from trashcan to trashcan picking up food. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that people just throw away, sometimes even right on the ground. Half-sandwiches, bread, bones, all kinds of sauce. It just lays on the ground, and I would eat it. 

I lived on the beach for a while, and even got a new family. It was my weirdest family because we didn’t live in a house, we lived on the beach. There were always new people coming in and out of the family, and dogs too. I lived with an old man, and then a boy. I lived with the boy for a while, until something happened to him, and he was gone. I think some other people attacked him, and kicked him out of the family, because he was gone. And then I had someone else to watch over, and then he was gone too. And then everything was gone, and I was alone again, eating out of the trashcans and on the street. I would just eat all the delicious stuff people didn’t want. It was an easy life, and I enjoyed it.

Then, I had to go back to the pound. 

Then, my new family, the one I live with now, came to get me, and I haven’t left them since we met. I was alone in the cage on my very first day in the pound, when the boy and the girl came to see me. The boy sang to me, and I sang back, and they came to get me a few days later. I was sick, coughing and wheezing, and in a terrible mood, but they still came to pick me up.

I still live with the new family, on the beach. I live in heaven. I get to eat whatever I want all the time, and I get to do whatever I want, which is mostly sleep. I had a sister for a while living here, but then she attacked me, so she left. Her name was Turbo, and I hate her. She tried to eat me. 

Maybe if you come to Venice Beach, I will hang out with you. There is a dog park right next to my house, where I go sometimes. I also like going to the beach to walk around and see the other people and dogs who are out. I also like going for car rides, and putting my head out the window.

My name is Chompy, and that was part of my story.

Freak Out Time

Right here, like a fucking dead pig strapped to a psychiatric wheelchair torturehouse fuckfuck.

freakout.jpg

Like Nine Inch Nails, except it’s inside my head!! Wheeeeeee!!!!

A Dilletante for Life

Some might say it’s a shitty thing, to dibble dabble in a bunch of shit, and not really be good at any of it. I think it’s pretty silly, not necessarily shitty. What am I dabbling in right now?

Painting
Guitars
Skateboarding

Now, if I were to pinpoint what it is that I’m doing in each of them, or where I’m going with any of them, the answer is pretty easy – I’m going nowhere. I’ll put one more in.

Writing

Now, out of all the things that I dabble in outside of work, am I going to get famous off them? Or rich? What about…can I pay my bills with them? To be honest, I don’t think so. The thing is, I am way too sensitive of a person to put myself all on the line on something and string it out as far as it will go. For example, if I tried to just play guitar and be a rocker, I know that I would end up broke, on drugs, and severely fucked up in the head. THAT IS, I would end up like that if I went through with my capacity. Luckily for me, and for your ears, I don’t want to be a rockstar anymore. Maybe I do somewhere in my hypocritical body, but my collective self, my EGO, is telling me, “No rocking for you, sucka.” And I’m listening.

Now if I wanted to be a full-time painter, I could probably swing that with a decent 30-hour a week job.

At the bottom of all of my thoughts about artsocietylife is the relationship between WORK TIME (WT) and HOME TIME (HT). WT are the hours that you devote to your employer (even if its yourself), to provide money for yourself so that you can eat, sleep under a roof, and do whatever else you want to with your remaining money. No matter what, you are going to need to eat and sleep somewhere, so most people take it upon themselves to get a job and become a (quasi) independent person.

Blablabla.

What I was trying to say is, that it’s hard for me to find the balance between the two. For the last two years, I have been grinding at work, getting in everyday at 5 AM, and working like a total bitchboy for an asshole. My job is to make my boss more money, regardless of how much I make. That’s what we all get paid to do, to make someone or something else money, of which we get a small, and usually just, percentage.

So what the fuck about people who somehow combine the two, WT and HT, to create a different kind of lifestyles. Artists are people who combine WT and HT, and I think people on the opposite side of the spectrum do as well, ie, ridiculous Wall Streeters working 15+ hours a day. The home is the office for those guys, just as the studio is the office for the artist, just like taking shots of liquor and doing lots of drugs is the office for rockers.

For me, though, moderation is key. I have lived a very unbalanced and unstable life before, and I am still in the process of smoothing out those problems. I’m not in that much debt, but ignoring it will only make it go away. It’s hard to reach that middle ground, where your utility shit, ie your bills, are taken care of, you go to work, and you come home to do your extracurriculars in a fulfilling way. I’d like to meet someone who could say, “I am totally balanced. A, B, C, and D all point to the fact that my life is perfectly well-rounded, and my happiness is a result of my personal success.”

Is that a happy life? The middle road success, defined by exercise, eating right, going to work, saving money, and then using your FREE TIME to do what you please? And then on the other end of the spectrum, we have the people who are totally over the edge into what they are into, empty vessels and slaves to invisible forces. Think about people who have gone totally over the edge for what they do, ie all the dead rockers, ie all the CEO’s with ruined home lives, ie the artist, ie the traveling gypsy guitarist, ie “Into the Wild.”

We all the love the guy from Into the Wild. Oh wow he’s so amazing, graduated college, burned his credit cards and money, and there he goes. Oh wow he is so amazing and beautiful to sacrifice so much for what he believes in.

So what? I say. So fucking what. If I jumped in the freeway because of my principles and got run over, is that any different than him going into the woods totally unprepared and dying, not because of some ideal, but because he was too stupid to pack the correct clothes. If he walked another mile down the river, it was crossable, but he didn’t, so died. Those aren’t ideals, those are stupid fuckups.

Anyway, I don’t have a point. Just sitting here at work, writing about shit. Peace.

Listen Up, Noobs

Listen up, little bitches…

Athene = massive savage